That's Okay
by Intangible.Insanity
Summary: Kumajirou had others to blame, three certain blondes, to be precise. Matthew could see one flaw though, it marred the family's picture. It was himself. For Canada Day... Happy Birthday, Matt!  Canada.Centric & Kumajirou's Musings


Hilo, um... This is the second fic I wrote for Hetalia and the first I posted.

I wrote this for Canada Day. I just thought of it while being depressed...It really wasn't supose to turn out this way, it just kinda did.

Tell me how you think and please don't kill me. (Hides behind Sweden)

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

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><p><strong>That's Okay<strong>

Pale sunlight flickered back and forth, dappling tiled floors. Rays of warmth playfully tempting a lazing, undersized polar bear, whose beady eyes stared with listlessness. It sat on a chair in front of a table in a kitchen. The bear was not a bleached sort of white nor was it a silvery white either, more of an ivory sort of colour. It had thick, soft looking fur, a velvety black nose and eerie, unblinking, owlish eyes. The polar bear's unnerving gaze was transfixed onto a cake, placed carefully in front of it. It scrunched up it's nose, parting it's black lips to reveal gleaming fangs.

The cake was simple, white with vanilla frosting and some maple syrup here and there. The sweet and syrupy scent made the bear's mouth water, it was tantalizing. Yet somehow, _something _was preventing it from wolfing the delicious food down. What was preventing him from eating it?

Thin, spidery writing in red was scrawled on the cake.

_'Happy Birthday __Canada!__'_

It said. For a strange reason the name was crossed out messily with red icing. The name that the polar bear was sure that belonged to his master, whose name that always escaped him. He _knew_ that he knew his master's name, its always on the tip of his tongue. That name, it flitted and lurked in the dark corners of his mind.

"Who?", he said flatly.

Kumajirou let out a pensive sigh. He knew it hurt his master when he asked his typical phrase. Who? He would ask. And his master would answer in a slight crestfallen tone, yet he would always give a gentle smile. They had been together for so long, since the time his master had first opened his indigo-violet eyes. Why did he ask this? That petty one worded phrase that was trivial, meant little, nothing. Contrary to that, the mere question implied a lot more. It was a reminder. A reminder to his master.

The master who has been always at Kumajirou's side. The master who showered him with love and kindness. The master who wept silently in public. The master who sobbed bitterly behind closed doors. The master who was forgotten and used. The same master whose sanity slipped out of his own grasp. The master who was Kumajirou's and Kumajirou's alone.

One would undoubtedly inquire what was the reminder and what was so significant about it.

He knew his master was overlooked. It hurt his master, a lot. Years, decades, centuries of being 'invisible' has taken its toll on him. There were times when Kumajirou's master would breakdown into hysteria, mutter feverishly to himself, sometimes he would even smash things or hurt himself. Sometimes he would curse his brother or his fathers, sometimes the nation would blame himself. He could smell the blood when his master went into the bathroom for a long time. What scared Kumajirou the most? That one day his master would breakdown. And during his master's fits of insanity or raves of madness, his violet eyes would take on a red hue, the feral look in the blonde man's wine-coloured eyes chilled Kumajirou's heart.

When Kumajirou says, 'Who?', he is reminding his master that he is there. That he will always be at his side. Insane or not. Kumajirou has stuck by him since, like, forever. The polar bear is reminding the forgotten nation that he is not all alone, that he does not have to suffer alone. Kumajirou will be there to lick his wounds. He will be there to pick him up, to help him ease the pain. He will be there when he is sad, when he is angry, happy, lost, alone. He will bombard his master with the same compassion and gentleness that he had shown him first. He will be _there_.

Kumajirou leaned back into the chair, tense as he glanced at the calendar that was carelessly thrown beside the cake. It had a picture of some hockey team on it and 'July' was printed on the glossy paper. A date, the first, was circled in black marker, two words were written out.

_'My Birthday!'_

The words were the same thin, spidery, irregular script as the red letters on the white cake. Kumajirou could feel the false happiness conveyed in the writing.

His master's birthdays were always desolate, lonesome ones. No one ever remembered to drop by, give him a gift or even just a phone call. Once upon a time, people did celebrate his master's birthday. The undersized polar bear could recall many years ago when that flashy, blonde man would drop by or that irritable, bushy browed, sandy blonde man and the most often, that annoying, hyper hamburger man. But that was a long time ago, they barely have time for him anymore. The only time they came around was when they needed something.

Now and then new people would come, people that would make his master smile genuinely or laugh. There was that strange, eccentric man with silver hair and red eyes, he would visit the most. Usually for pancakes, but he made his master very happy. He never forgot who he was. Another familiar person was a kind, gentle, busty woman with blonde hair and gray-blue eyes. Then there was that guy with the weird spiked up hair, he had a strange scent that clung onto him and he always came with flowers. Sometimes a tall, intimidating, creepy man with pale hair and eyes like his master's own, would come and play a game of hockey with him. Kumajirou did not like him. And there was a stoic, young man that would visit for tea, he had brown hair and dark brown eyes. He smelled of the sea and tea leaves.

Those days were long gone. Like his master's so-called 'family'. Kumajirou usually assumed that they were busy, but for what? Ten years they haven't visited, not even an e-mail or a simple phone call. Then again, they were nations far away, across the ocean. They weren't family either, so he couldn't blame them.

Kumajirou had others to blame, three certain blondes, to be precise.

He blamed the flamboyant blonde man who smelled of roses and lilies. The man would claim that he was his master's 'Papa'. Yes, he was one of the first to discovered him and his nation. He was also the one who his master gave his love and heart to, only to have it tossed back, mangled and broken. The man that his naive and gentle master loved so much, one among the first who got close. He was also the one who almost tore his master apart. Kumajirou could still vividly remember his master muttering to himself in French and English, crying silently in distress at being torn apart inside because of his people's voices. He was loving and affectionate and had a sort of pull to him, unlike those barbaric, yet somewhat kind men that fed his master lies years ago. He remembered when the European nation would tell his master that he loved him at night. _Lies. All lies._ Why did he give his master up without such of a fight? Or when he turned his back on his master during the hamburger man's revolution. The white bear thought it would be different with this man, he was proven wrong when the young colony was handed over carelessly to that cruel Englishman, like he was an used toy. _**Quelques arpents de neige?**_ _Is that what my master is, eh?_

The polar bear was and is utterly disgusted at the man that his master would call, 'Father' or 'Dad'. What kind of father were you if you forgot him half the time? Or confuse him with his idiotic twin? The man was a horrible father, favouring one over the other and a horrible drunk. It was always, 'Alfred this, Alfred that!', when was it that his master was ever mentioned. Ignoring him while that blasted hamburger man was around, when he was gone calling him the burger man's name. Dressing him as him, talking to him like he was the burger man. What did that old coot didn't get? His master was _not_ and is _not_ that damn hamburger man. Sometimes he would beat his master, 'to get that bloody French out of him!' or 'so he won't leave!' Kumajirou hated him for violating his master. 'Mine, mine, mine', that senile, former empire would murmur under his breath and his master would shake and tremble, begging for mercy. He hated him, loathed him for all he did to his master. And the wars, all the bloody wars that he dragged his master to, all the deaths. Yet, his master still loves him. _Too kind and too forgiving._

And finally there was the hamburger man. His master's brother, twin brother. Kumajirou could feel his nation's anguish when someone mistook him for his more out-going brother. Most of his master's pain stemmed from the burger man. Everyone flocked around him, even back then the rose man and the bushy browed man fought over him. They were neighbours, they live so close to each other. But so far at the same time. The hamburger man could practically waltz in anytime and despite of that, he doesn't. He doesn't, he just does not. The polar bear never forgave him for the burns and scars from 1812. He could recall his master screaming in agony and pain, fire raging in York. It was as if the hamburger man was a tree growing and thriving, high above the others. While his master was stuck in his looming shadow, struggling to live, in vain and agony.

Kumajirou didn't realize that he was snarling until his jaws started to ache. He blinked and let his jaws slack, grimacing at the dull pain. The anger that was burning in his stomach fizzled away, making the undersized bear's usual appetite return.

Lazily he lifted his paw towards the cake before him. His hooked claw gently skimmed the frosting of the cake, leaving a faint mark. Kumajirou licked the tip of his claw, savouring the sweet taste.

...

A soft whimper escaped from Canada's lips. A curtain of blonde blocked his vision, everything was aching. His world was crumbling, hasn't it always?

He knew he should get used to this, after all he has dealt with this for years. But he couldn't stop the cold from seeping into him, not the pleasant cool warmth in Southern Ontario, rather a bitter, icy cold that only an enraged General Winter could cast. The cold of the arctic coiled around him like a snake, wrapping him in a remorseless, yet loving embrace. Then again, that was okay, the cold was a part of him.

No one had come. It was his birthday today, July 1st, Canada Day, Dominion Day. Nobody came over to wish him a happy birthday or give him a present. Not England, America or even France had come. That was normal, wasn't it?

France was a bustling nation. He was also occupied by other...things. America was obviously planning for his own birthday, just three days after his. And England was getting drunk about it.

His birthday, his very _presence_ was overshadowed by his more, boisterous and 'heroic' brother.

Canada loved them, he really did. He loved his Papa, France, his Dad, England and his twin brother, America. Nonetheless, resentment and bittersweet feelings lingered, like a foul aftertaste in his mouth. Matthew loved them so much, it ached when they don't recognize him or mistake him for his brother. He didn't understand why he was so...invisible. Matthew blamed his quiet and meek personality or sometimes he thought he just wasn't enough to keep up with them. Maybe it was because he was worthless or he really was a used toy that no one wanted anymore.

From time to time, Matthew wonders if his Papa really loved him. The European nation was the first to successfully colonize him, Francis was his Papa. He loved him, adored him, his Papa was his world. When he became England's colony, he really couldn't believe it. But it was true, his Papa didn't want him anymore. _He. _Didn't. **Want. **Him.

The pain in Matthew's heart increased, his breathing laboured and heavy. The horrible memories rushing in a emotional torrent. Tears trickled down his pale cheeks, his violet eyes stinging. His nails digging into his scalp as he pulled at his feathery blonde hair. He bit into his lip to muffle his sobs that were rising from his throat. He wanted to scream.

The person he loved with all his heart had abandoned him. Why? Because he was insignificant, he was just a frozen tundra. He didn't have sugarcane or nice warm weather. He was Nouvelle France, just a wasteland of snow and ice, he was useless.

Matthew tried so hard to cling onto good times when his Papa would sing him to sleep or tell him stories. He desperately struggled to grasp onto them, to hold them close, to block the cruel, merciless truth. He couldn't. No matter how much he tried to get a grip on them, they left anyway, just like everyone else. And regardless of how much he tried to remember them, the hurtful ones always resurfaced. But aren't the lies and the truth just as hurtful, just as harsh?

When he sees France at the meetings, he usually ducks and hides. Then there were many times when he wanted to scream, '**Why?**'. Why did you leave me? Why did act like you loved me? Was my life a lie? Was your _love_ a lie? How many other things were lies?

But he will not, just smile in sad, demure manner when France looks his way. He will not know of the rage and bitterness inside of him. That's okay, France didn't have a choice.

Nouvelle France still calls out to his Papa. The child's heart in pain of betrayal, still, his tiny hand still reaches out to the retreating back of France. Canada does not, but Nouvelle France is a part of him. Inside he is still the child that was left behind, with a heart that is tainted, yet pure.

Matthew sat up from his bed, leaning his head against the wall. Eyes red, tear tracks were still visible. His hand holding the left side of his pale neck, finger nails leaving angry red crescents. He could feel the restlessness in his bones and fatigue weighed him down like an anchor. Oh, how he wanted to just run away into a field of blood red flowers and drown in their razor sharp thorns. Matthew couldn't though, no matter what he will not drown in the crimson sea of red. He could bask in the red for brief moments, little bits of his personal paradise. However, that was never enough. A glint caught his violet eyes, a sliver of silver was all he saw. So close, but it would never give him the healing he really needed. Red, he wanted so badly. But it was alright, he could be patient, he had waited on basically everything in his life. So he would wait.

Focus. He thought. He didn't need to run away to his bit of paradise, he just wanted to sleep in a sea of blood or just go off on his own and let the cold love him, after all the cold had always doted on him. It never forgot him. It never mistook him. It never betrayed him. Never loved anyone else. He shook his head, ridding himself of his thoughts. The cold _was_ here. He embraced it, welcomed it. He let the invisible tendrils of frost wreath lovingly around him, as if it was hugging him close.

He remembered when Alfred used to hug him like that.

Alfred.

America.

The back of his eyes started to feel pricks again as tears swarmed his vision. His nails dug deep into his neck as he struggled to keep the tears at bay.

The golden child, a superpower. That was what his brother was, everyone sought after him. His brother was the better, always have and always will. He gained independence first. America was England's favourite, while he was playing second fiddle. His brother was the 'hero', he was just his shadow. America had everything, family, friends, attention. What did he have? _Nothing._ And anything that Canada managed to salvage was always ripped away.

He stole everything away from him. Friends. Images of all the nations flashed through his mind. Eliciting ragged, madden sobs from the forgotten nation's abused throat. His brother had friends that clustered around him, laughing and smiling. When he stood in the corner, ignored and overlooked.

Attention. Something he has always craved, not much, just a bit would be nice though. But no. The spotlight was always on his brother. It was as if there was a giant target on his Alfred's back. Even when he got attention, it was always because he looked like his brother.

And worst of all, family. England never even looked his way when they were growing up. He loved Alfred, he was the golden child in his eyes. He still does love America, even after the Revolution. And his papa- no, France likes him better than him. He helped his brother during the Revolution, gave him a statue. What did he give him? Nothing, just pain and misery. And what did Alfred get? Independence and recognition. Everyone loves America, everyone.

Even me. Canada thought mournfully, running his thin hands through his soft golden hair. That was alright, wasn't it? Wasn't it right to love your brother? Even if he ruined your life? Wasn't it?

The only times he had remembered him was when he needed a favour or something from him. He remembers America's greedy blue eyes and wandering hands. The roaring flames and the stony stare of his twin as he burned his capital. Matthew shivered, feeling the cold and hungry gaze upon his back, tracing over his body, his very soul.

About family, he was absolutely terrified of England, at the same time though, glad of his presence. He never tried to draw him close and toss him away, no, America and France are the ones who did that. They would bring you close and when they got bored of you, they'd chuck you away. It was always the same. Same with the Nordics, France, America, England too.

But before that, England didn't do that. He used to focus all on America. However, after the American Revolution, he changed. He came home one day, soaked to the bone, dressed in his bloodied uniform. No rowdy, rebel American teen at his side. Not a whisper came from his lips, sealed shut. His green eyes were blank, vacant and red. Tears or rainwater? Ran down his hollow, sallow cheeks. The empire remained silent as he dressed his wounds. England's eyes stared into the distance to the south, a faraway look. He became reclusive, staying in his own room. The only sound that left his lips were the crying and sobbing in the dead of night. It stayed like that for a while. Matthew was disgruntled, worried and scared, even, but eventually he got used to it.

One morning, he woke up. To find Arthur up and about, making his horrid, charred food. He looked up at smiled at the young colony and offered him some food, to which he had no choice but to reluctantly accept. Matthew's violet-blue eyes were sceptical as he gazed at the empire. What was the catch? Why would England smile and talk to him, let alone notice him?

Then it happened. He called him Alfred, not Matthew, Alfred. He dressed him like his brother, spoke to him as if he was his brother, called him Alfred. Alfred, America, Alfred, America, Alfred, America. He wasn't America, he was Canada.

Matthew tried so hard to correct him, then Arthur would only fly into a rampage. Backhanding him, screaming about him pretending to be America, that he was never going to replace him. He wasn't though, he was just trying to help. And what did he get in return? Bruises and cuts. So he quietly went his way, letting the empire call him Alfred, drag him around and dress him like a doll. He let him do it because he knew it comforted England, reassuring him that he had another colony around. Yes, _another _colony.

Occasionally, when Arthur was sober, he would just sit in his armchair by the fireplace and he'd just stare into the burning embers. His large eyebrows drawn together, hazy green eyes would be inquisitive as they bore into the hearth. After a few hours of staring, he'd cradle Canada in his arms, muttering soft, empty promises. Promising that he would bring America back. He didn't.

Those things did not terrify him. No, not the bruises and welts, not the hollow words. But it was that night.

He could recall so vividly. He had just climbed into bed after putting England into his own and started to doze off, when his bedroom door was open. He remembered the deranged, yet calculating jade eyes. _His_ moans. His own screams. _His_ whispers of false comfort. His pleas and begs. _His_ possessive embrace. His insides recoiling in fear. _His_ sadistic pleasure. His agony and humiliation. _His _promising lies. His bitter realization. _His _delusioned '**love**'. His frail acceptance of the mendacious love.

Tender 'love' that never lasted. But there were still moments where England's eyes would take on the deranged look and he would corner him and hold him close, muttering about it. Canada trembled violently, hugging himself in a vice-like grip. Trying to forget everything from that night. He could still feel England's bruising grip and hear his heady voice. He didn't want to remember, no more.

The cold raked it's glacial wisps tenderly against his skin, caressing his very being. A tear slid down his cheek, freezing upon his eyelashes. He shakily rubbed his eyes, his glasses long gone, flung across the room in his earlier outburst. There was still dried blood on his hands.

_Something cold and reptilian crawled under his skin. His mind was fogged by anger and despair. Flames of rage singed his chest, licking at the cold, emptiness that settled in him. He seethed. He wanted to smack that idiotic look off his brother's face, rip his 'Papa's' hair out and just slit England's throat. He wanted them to pay, pay for everything they did to him._

_Red. He wanted to drown in red, yes? But they had to drown first._

A feral, cynical smile tugged at the corners of his lips. No one wanted him anymore. No one, just the cold did but that was okay. He clawed at his forearm, leaving faint red marks. Pale scars littered at random intervals across his wrist and forearm. The cold snaked around his exposed skin, intangible fingers brushing every so softly against his flesh. The cold helped his shield his heart from pain and disappointment, it encased it in ice. Still, it hurt whenever his family asked who he was.

Just thinking about his family was without him brought tears to his eyes. His eyes once again began to burn, his heart felt like it was being picked at, slowly and agonizingly. Like someone who had a knife, dragging it over his heart or nicking it with the razor pointed edge.

"I wonder, if every time someone forgot me and my arm gets a scar in return. How many would there be?", he whispered softly, delicate words woven from frost.

He fingered his scars, a teary smile plastered on his pale face. Matthew could just imagine the lattice work on his arms, it would look like a battlefield, pale lines everywhere. _It would be beautiful_, he though dolefully. But, what it represented didn't. His head pounded with torment as images flashed.

He glanced at a picture on his nightstand. The glass was shattered, broken. There were four blondes in the photo, they were Francis, himself, Arthur and Alfred. His Papa was on the edge of the group, his possessive arm around Matthew's waist, a sly smile upon his face. The Frenchman's azure eyes were affectionate and loving. Then there was Matthew, a shy smile hung on his lips and his violet-blue eyes dark. In the picture, he noticed himself leaning away from Francis, his posture tense. His brother had his arms slung around him and their Dad, a wide grin stretched across his face. Arthur was on the other edge of the group, scowling, his emerald eyes glowing with warmth. They would be so happy, they are happy.

Matthew could see one flaw though, it marred the family's picture. It was _himself_.

A shudder passed through him, a sob threatening to break the fragile silence. He has gotten used to being forgotten, but just thinking of how happy would be without him, it was painful. That's okay, he had been alone for most of his life, Matthew tried to reassure himself. But it didn't stop tears from escaping.

"T-that's okay.", he whimpered, everything hurt. Why didn't he just die? A cool breath stirred his feathery locks of hair, glacial hands tracing over his skin. Something inside of his shattered, darkness welling up, swallowing him.

He's used to it, so it was alright that they forgot him. More tears came, melting the frozen ones upon his pale, hollow cheek.

A ragged sob racked his body. "That's okay, that's okay, that's okay, that's okay, t-that's okay.", his whispery voice cracked. The two words left his lips repeatedly like a broken record. The ethereal cold twined around him, shadowy fingers ghosted through his hair as if trying to soothe his anguish. Arctic cold froze the nation's tears, glittering crystalline droplets.

...

A creak went unnoticed as Kumajirou lumbered into the dark room.

It was unnoticed by the shivering form on the bed. It was his master. The nation's slightly wavy blonde hair that was in a disarray and dim indigo eyes that were rimmed red. Teardrops were rolling down his sallow cheeks, raspy words flowing from his lips.

"T-tha-that's o-kay, th-that's okay, that's ok-okay, that's okay, t-that's okay, that's o-okay, that's oka-okay, t-th-that's ok-okay,", he whispered the phrase like a mantra. His shoulders shook with each gasping breath he took. He continued to mutter it feverishly to no one in particular.

The undersized bear cocked his head to the side, sighing and scrambled to get up the bed. He shivered, it was unreasonably cold on his master's bed. His hard, black eyes softened at the sound of his master's desperate, hysterical voice. "Th-that's o-okay, tha-that's ok-okay, t-that's oka-", a rough, ragged sob cut off his forlorn words.

The white bear's furry paw lightly touched the northern nation's cheek. "Hey, hey you."

He wasn't even aware of the polar bear. He just kept rasping the two words. "That's okay, t-that's okay..."

"Who are you?"

"Tha-"

His master's voice died in his throat. He turned his head to look at Kumajirou with wide, hurt eyes, flickering. Glassy, amethyst eyes turned sharper and colder. A mad glint was in his eyes, red, spreading and flickering, overshadowing the demure mauve. Soon, his master's eyes were a dangerous vermillion, darkness and insanity flitting.

The nation's lips were pulled into a taunt, thin line. The red around his eyes was gone, no sound emitted from his mouth and his face seemed to have grown paler, distant. Kumajirou suppressed a shiver, instead, waited patiently for the answer.

A soft growl emerged from his master's throat. "**I'm-**"

"Matthew, Canada."

His master, Canada or Matthew, blinked. His iridescent red eyes faded back to their natural benign violet-blue. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, disbelief and hope shone in his melancholic eyes.

"W-what?", he gasped.

Kumajirou tapped his master's nose with his paw. "I said, you are Matthew, Canada."

A lone tear trickled down his cheek before he wrapped his arms around the bear. A low whine came from the nation's lips, his whole frame shaking. Matthew's nimble fingers were tangled in Kumajirou's thick, white pelt.

"Come a-again?", he murmured feebly into his every present companion's neck.

The small bear buried his nose into his master's flaxen colourer hair. "You are Matthew. You are Canada.", he replied quietly.

His breathing hitched. "Say th-that again.", Matthew's voice nothing but just above a whisper.

"Matthew, Canada."

"Again, please."

"Canada, Matthew."

"Ag-again?"

"Matthew, Matthew Williams, Canada."

Through out the whole night the bear just kept on muttering his name, knowing it calmed his master down. It was about midnight before something took over the sleepy polar bear.

"Who am I?", Kumajirou mumbled.

Silence met him.

...

He gazed fondly at the small bear on the bed as he pulled up his black hood and put on his new wire framed glasses. The lens fogged as the cold curled around him, silent reassurance.

He walked back into the bathroom, the sink was stained with fresh red, splatters of crimson on the tiles and on the tap. The northern nation glanced at the blood, fingers trembling. Matthew breathed deeply before clenching his fingers into a fist. He gave a grim smile when he stared at his heavily bandaged wrist and as the cold's ghostly hands ran over his mangled flesh.

Canada turned on the tap, making sure it was cold and cupped his hands. He carefully washed all the blood, no trace left behind. The mirror misted over, he wiped it away. Matthew stared at his reflection blankly, he could almost see himself fade. He smile cruelly to himself, mocking violet eyes sneered at their owner. Suddenly, he realized that he hated his eyes.

That soft violet-blue, indigo, it was disgusting. The world went black for a few heartbeats before he saw clearly again.

The red had come back into his eyes, the corner of his right iris was plagued by the colour. Before long, the nation's eyes were a beautiful, yet detached burgundy that were frosted over, like glass.

He let out a light giggle. "That's better."

Matthew headed out the bathroom, he reached into his pocket. His fingers grasped nothing, his scarlett coloured eyes narrowed. The nation backtracked, a glimmer caught his eye, he rushed to his shelf. He let out a sigh of relief as he gingerly picked up a trench knife. It had a worn wooden handle and the blade gleamed in the dim lighting, the edge was razor sharp.

The blonde fingered the edge of the blade, leaving a faint white line on his skin.

The cold furrowed around him, glacial tendrils caressing him, kissing his exposed flesh. He sighed, leaning into the bitter winter and for a moment a contentment settled into him. Icy hands fondly brushed his cheeks, the cold numbing him and hardening his heart. Shadows ghosted delicately over his eyes.

A chilling, derisive smile crossed his pale lips. The skies will be painted red tonight.

He stared outside the window, watching the snow swirl outside. The wind howled as if in agony, gales calling for blood. As Canada left the house, he stared back at it, never knowing when he will be back. He would miss Kumajirou, but he would get hurt if he stayed with him, he's not safe.

The nation raised his hand, reaching out towards the house, before he lowered it. The snow falling all around, flurries calming and the cold winding around him like a clingy child. Wraithlike shadows wisped around him, dancing and hanging in the frozen air. A gasp of cold faded into the unforgiving atmosphere, a soft mauve glow emitted from the moon above.

"That's okay, but I'm sorry. It was okay, a long time ago, it isn't anymore."

The words were lost as the madden nation disappeared into the cold arctic night. Silhouettes, alive, flitted after him.

* * *

><p>Happy Canada Day!<p> 


End file.
